


Twilight of the Paranormal Gods

by Miso



Category: Ghostbusters (Movies)
Genre: Deathfic, Gen, M/M, mention of suicide, sadfic, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new team of Ghostbusters worries about the sole remaining member of the original team after a string of losses drives a wedge between Ray and humanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twilight of the Paranormal Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the 2020s, after most of the original team has passed away. (Sidney, Kei, and Agustina are original characters of mine. Oscar is Dana's son from the second movie.) Elwood and Frank are Elwood Blues and Grocer (from Grosse Pointe Blank), other Dan Aykroyd roles I think are cousins of Ray's.

“Has anyone heard from Ray since Winston’s funeral?”

Oscar’s question broke the silence in the upstairs area of Hook & Ladder 8. Things had been strange since all but one of their mentors passed away. Kei spent an awful lot of time locked in xir lab, throwing xirself into xir work after Egon died. Sidney seemed very withdrawn into himself, not his usual boisterous self since Peter passed on- he hadn’t even thrown his prosthetic arm at anyone when they asked him to give them a hand since then. And Oscar, mentored by Winston, told that if he was anything like his mother, New York would be in very good hands, was barely coming to grips with the idea that he was gone.

And then there was Ray. Agustina grew more and more worried about her teacher with every passing day. It had been two weeks since Winston’s funeral, and nobody had heard from him since. He had looked so tired, so sad, so old. Seeing the heart of the Ghostbusters, the cheerful, baby-faced soul of the team looking like he’d had the life sucked out of him had been jarring. He hadn’t been quite the same since Egon died. Understandable, since he had spent the last 30-something years with him. Peter and Winston’s deaths only seemed to aggravate whatever was wrong with him.

“… No,” came Kei’s matter of fact response, though the worry on xir face gave away xir true feelings. Egon would have been proud. The designated brains of the group went back to drafting plans for some contraption xe never seemed to want to talk about. It was a distraction, and that was all Kei needed. Sidney, in the meantime, solemnly shook his head, and Agustina barely looked up from the Rubik’s Cube she’d been playing with.

“It’s been an awful long time… he used to come down almost every day.”

“Then it was twice a week after Egon died, then once a month after Peter, and now…”

“He hasn’t even called. I’m worried.” Oscar stood and pulled his shoes on, heading for the fire pole. “I’m gonna walk over there and check on him. Anyone else up for it?”

Silence.

“… Right. Well, I’ll be back.” With that, he slid down the pole, and silence returned to the upstairs of Hook & Ladder 8.

***

The bitter cold New York winter somehow seemed even colder this year. Biting wind nipped at Oscar’s cheeks and nose as he walked the five blocks to Ray’s apartment building, his breath materializing as wispy vapor in front of him and vanishing just as quickly. He trembled a little as he entered the lobby of the building and headed for the elevator, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm up even in the heated building.

Still feeling frostbitten, he came to a halt in front of Ray’s door a few moments later. He knocked tentatively, calling, “Ray? Dr. Stantz? It’s Oscar. You in there?”

Nothing. He knocked again. “Ray? Everyone’s worried about you. Please answer the door…”

He got a response, but it wasn’t the one he was hoping for. A tiny, weak voice called from inside; “Go away.” A tiny, weak voice, but one that still very clearly belonged to one of the beloved members of the original New York City Ghostbusters.

Oscar breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was alive. That was honestly more than Oscar was expecting. “Can I come in?”

“I said go away.”

“Doc, please…”

“No!” The most emotion Ray’s voice had held in a long time. Oscar backed away from the door a little, not sure how to respond. A door across the hall creaked open; a pink-haired young woman poked her head out.

“Don’t bother, dude,” she said, quietly, as Oscar turned to face her. “He came back after your one dude’s funeral and he hasn’t come back out since.”

“But… Winston’s funeral was two weeks ago. He hasn’t even gone out for groceries or anything…?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Nobody’s seen him and there’s somebody coming and going all the time here. He’s alive in there, he’s talkin’ when someone asks to come in… I mean, it’s just to tell ‘em to fuck off, but still.”

“But-”

“If I were you, I’d just wait 'im out. He’ll come out eventually. He has to. You can’t be a hermit in the middle of Manhattan. City of 9 and a half million people, and he’s tryin’ to hole himself up. It doesn’t work like that.”

Oscar paused briefly, then sighed heavily. “Right… h-he’ll come out on his own time.” He turned back to Ray’s door and said, “I just wanted to make sure you were alive in there, Ray… give us a call down at the firehouse, will you? Everyone’s worried.”

Silence again. Oscar just nodded, then turned back to the pink-haired girl. “Thanks, miss. Could you keep an eye on his door for me? Give the Ghostbusters a call if you see him out and about.”

***

Ray listened as the door across the hall closed and Oscar’s footsteps went back down the hallway. He closed his eyes and pulled the remains of Dopey Dog close to his chest. His old friend was basically a rag at this point- lost half an ear, an eye, most of his nose and mouth long since worn away, covered in the muck of the years and more patches than original fabric. Not that Ray cared. Dopey was all he really had since the other three passed away. He felt tears prick his eyes at the very thought of the three late Ghostbusters.

His friends, his partner, the people who had saved his life. He looked around his and Egon’s apartment, trembling a bit. Most of Egon’s possessions had remained untouched, exactly as they were when he died. His glasses still sat on his nightstand, his clothes neatly ordered and hung by color as he liked, a broken PKE meter sat on the coffee table, never fixed. A fine layer of dust coated most of Egon’s things. Peter and Winston had urged Ray to donate some of Egon’s clothes to charity, or see if some of his stuff couldn’t be auctioned off to raise money for ASAN or the Vasculitis Foundation or something. Ray utterly refused to let go of these things.

And now Peter and Winston were gone, too. Ray never thought he’d be the last member of the team left. And the new kids had the gall to interrupt his mourning claiming they needed him! Where were they when HE needed THEM?

He could feel the anger building inside him and shook his head. He wrapped himself up tighter in his old stim blanket and flicked on the TV. It had never worked before, but part of him kept thinking watching shitty, brains-off television would help get his mind off things.

He paused his channel-surfing when he saw a glimpse of Egon’s face on the television. Egon as he had been years ago- middle aged, stern, stoic, serious. His dark brown hair had the slightest streaks of gray at the roots, brown stubble dotted his face, his formerly willowy 6'4" frame had begun filling out, giving him a tiny paunch at his stomach and rounder cheeks. He hadn’t styled his hair the day that picture was taken; it fell into a thick, wild mess of curls. Ray felt a tender smile cross his features as his gaze met the broadcast photograph’s.

Only then did Ray realize he was listening to a documentary made about the Ghostbusters without their permission. The smile fell and a knot built in his stomach as a velvet-voiced narrator spoke, “Egon Spengler died after a long illness in 2021. He was 77.”

The TV was quickly clicked off before the narrator could go into the gory details or move on to Peter, or even Winston. With how quickly news of Winston’s death had spread, Ray wouldn’t be surprised if some assholes had churned out a documentary in a few days to make a quick buck. He glanced at his cell phone, at all the missed voicemails and texts that had accumulated over the last few days. Most of them were from Oscar, Sidney, Kei, and Agustina, but every now and then he’d notice one from Elwood, or cousin Frank, or Janine or Dana or Louis. Ray had no plans to respond to any of them anytime soon.

He honestly didn’t even know how much longer he’d be alive. He knew an overdose of his blood pressure medicine probably wouldn’t kill him. He had no reliable way of fashioning a noose. Both he and Egon hated guns and wouldn’t keep one in their apartment. Bleeding out from the wrists would take too long, and he didn’t particularly want to self-defenestrate from the roof of his apartment building. Too high-profile.  
Maybe if he got lucky he’d starve. He’d barely eaten since Winston’s funeral. There was just this heavy weight settling in his chest, surpressing any emotions that weren’t depression or self-pity and ruining his appetite. Ray curled in on himself and let himself cry, tears streaking his face.

They said you couldn’t be a hermit in the middle of Manhattan, but he could sure as hell try.


End file.
